


Too Close

by ThereBeDragons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Actually smut pretty soon, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant - Up to a point, Eventual Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-02 16:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeDragons/pseuds/ThereBeDragons
Summary: It's all too much. Finally.





	1. Not gay?

**Author's Note:**

> An old-fashioned, smutty Johnlock piece I started ages ago. Could be post-Mary (maybe Rosie is at the baby-sitter's?) but as there's no Mary in my headcannon this is more likely from Season One. Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked, so I welcome helpful comments!

Why hadn’t he brought his gun? John cursed inwardly as they ran in a dead heat away from the smugglers. He and Sherlock giving chase at first, then the tables had turned, prey had switched to predator: when they saw that Sherlock and John were unarmed the three men – the three men with guns – rounded on them in pursuit. It was close, so close, and John’s heart beat in his throat as he heard the pounding footsteps behind them.

  
Sherlock snaked out a hand and jerked John’s arm, pulling him into an alleyway, up the fire escape, across the roof and down again. They had a bit of a lead now, the felons weren’t as adept at clambering up and down buildings, as accustomed to it, as Sherlock and John. So they were out of the three assailants’ sight when Sherlock yanked a rusty padlock off a hidden door and they slipped inside, Sherlock quickly but silently pushing the door shut. They panted in the near-darkness as footsteps thundered past. Then it was still and John leaned back against the door, his breath ragged in his throat.

  
“That was close,” John gasped, when he could finally get the words out. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he could see they were in a basement storage room. A few dusty boxes stood in a corner but the rest was cavernously empty, the only light coming in from a streetlamp, faint through the cloudy window. “I thought…”

  
Sherlock stood with his head against the wall, his eyes screwed shut, hands yanking his hair. Tension radiated from his body. John stared in confusion. That’s not how Sherlock typically looked in the middle of a case. Usually he was childishly delighted by surprises, exhilarated by the chase, intrigued by a turn of events that would – perhaps – engage both his mind and body for a few moments. But that’s not how he looked now. His face was agonized.

  
“John…” he said. “That was too close.”

  
“If only I’d had my gun…”

  
“No.” Sherlock rocked his head back and forth against the wall. That looked like it hurt. “No, I shouldn’t have put you in this situation in the first place. Three of them, with guns. They’ve killed before, they wouldn’t have thought twice about…” his voice cracked.

  
“Sherlock?” John stepped over to pull Sherlock’s face back from the wall. “It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re okay…”

  
“John, you idiot! I don’t care that I’m safe. But if they’d hurt you…” he whispered. “If they’d hurt you…” Sherlock’s voice cracked. He turned his face, gazing down into John’s eyes. Sherlock’s own eyes, icy gray-green-blue, shifted from tortured to calculating to hopeful in the space of a second. His hands moved, grabbing the back of John’s head and wrenching him in for a kiss.

  
John was stunned. He couldn’t move at first, the gears in his mind completely shut down by the unexpected jolt of Sherlock’s lips on his, Sherlock’s rough cheek against his own, Sherlock’s hands moving to his shoulders and down his back. And then John’s brain started up again and he threaded his hands up into Sherlock’s wild curls and he kissed back. He kissed back like he’d never kissed before, hungry and wanting, rough like he wouldn’t ever dare with a woman, lips-teeth-tongue deep and ravenous. He hadn’t even known that he’d wanted this. His mind reeling, processing disjointedly – _what? Hang on. What am I doing!?_ – but his body knew what to do. His body moved in and rutted against Sherlock’s leg, and Sherlock broke off from the kiss, leaned his head back against the wall, and groaned like something had broken inside of him. John licked a long swath up and down that gorgeous white neck. He clamped his lips and teeth and he bit, sucked long and hard, at last pulling off to see the dark love bite on Sherlock’s neck. The sight both astounded and thrilled him. _I’m marking him_ , he thought. _I’m marking him as mine._

  
Sherlock could always read him. Could read his actions and silences and thoughts as if he’d spoken them out loud. “Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Yes, mark me, I’m yours. I’ve been yours since the day we met. John. But you’re not gay. You’ve always said you’re _not gay_.”

  
“Fuck that,” John said. He could feel Sherlock’s hard cock against his stomach, through all their layers of clothing, and if that wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever felt…He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and brought it down for another kiss, licking around those full lips, dipping his tongue into the striking cleft of his philtrum, biting and tasting. The noises Sherlock was making in his throat were setting him on fire.

  
“John,” Sherlock panted. “John, I need you. I’m yours, whatever you want…”

  
The gears in John’s head creaked slowly as he wrapped his mind around what Sherlock was saying. John pulled back and glanced around the damp, grimy basement. “Erm, Sherlock? Why don’t we go home? Go home and go to bed?”

  
“Bed,” Sherlock murmured. “Yes, bed, warm, soft. But I want you here. I want you now. John. I want you to take me so there’s no going back. I almost lost you again…I almost lost you, and I can’t cope anymore, can’t cope until I’m yours, body and soul…”

  
“Always so impatient.” John huffed a laugh out through his nose. “Instant gratification isn’t quick enough for you, is it? As…tempting as it is to take you up on your offer, don’t you think we should first go home? The floor here looks filthy.”

  
“Details,” Sherlock grumbled, sweeping his eyes over what he could make out of the basement room. His eyes moved appraisingly to John and then to the wall.

  
“And with our height difference I don’t quite know how we’d manage much standing up,” John continued. “Besides, I’ve never really done this before. With a man. I’d like to…savor… the first time.” He looked at Sherlock beseechingly.

  
Sherlock swallowed. John could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as Sherlock actually gulped. “Savor,” Sherlock repeated. “John. Yes. But I’m afraid…I don’t want to leave and have you come to your senses and remember that you’re _not gay_ …”

  
“Well, clearly I must be at least a little gay…” John pulled Sherlock’s hand down and placed it over his erection, watching as Sherlock’s face went completely still. “And who cares about labels, anyway? When has that worried you?”

  
“It doesn’t worry me! But you’ve always been so clear, so adamant…”

  
“Oh, shut it. I was wrong, okay? I just didn’t know. Didn’t notice. I’m an idiot, remember? Like most people.”

  
“No! No, not like anyone else at all. John, my John…” Sherlock whipped off his long, ridiculous, sexy coat and folded it once, twice. He lay it on the floor and with his usual startling grace sank to his knees on top of it. He loosened the scarf from his neck and tossed it aside, his long, capable fingers unfastened the button on John’s trousers.

  
John grabbed his wrists and yanked them away. “Sherlock,” he said sternly, his Captain Watson voice clear in the cavernous room. “I want you. I’m not going to change my mind. We can go home and do this the right way, not on a moldy, disgusting floor with criminals circling outside…”

  
“Criminals,” Sherlock repeated. “Yes.” In one fluid motion he rose again, whipping out his phone and tapping furiously. “There. I texted Lestrade the smugglers’ rough whereabouts. Even he should be able to find them now.” He looked down at John again and the confidence on his face shifted back into vulnerability; not a look he wore often. “You’ll still want me…”

  
“Yes,” John reassured him. “Yes. Let’s go home.”


	2. Delayed Gratification

The click of John’s locking the door of 221B was exceptionally loud in the silence. The two men just stared at one another for a beat before John grabbed Sherlock’s face between his hands and kissed him.

Sherlock went completely still. 

John kissed softly at first, reassuring, gentle. He felt Sherlock’s body begin to relax, to respond, and so he deepened the kiss. Sherlock’s hands, which had been clenched at his sides, slid up and into John’s hair. Sherlock opened his mouth and moaned as John’s tongue touched his own.

That deep, desperate sound from Sherlock set John on fire. He moved his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders and pressed him against the door, pinning him back with his hands and his body. He could feel that Sherlock was hard again. Or still, in spite of the endless taxi ride. 

“Oh, Jesus,” John gasped. He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and brushed his lips against the cool, white length of it. Sherlock shivered, moving his hands from John’s hair, slowly down his back, and finally to cup his arse. John groaned. “Sherlock, oh my God,” he breathed, looking up into those mesmerizing light eyes. “I never even knew I wanted this.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Think of all the time we’ve wasted.”

John pulled Sherlock’s head down into another kiss, this time grinding his own erection into Sherlock’s leg. It wasn’t enough. He reached for Sherlock’s trousers and then his own, unbuttoning, unzipping, pulling their cocks free, trying to rub them together with one hand. It didn’t work - Sherlock was too tall. So John dropped to his knees, tugging Sherlock’s trousers to the ground.

“Oh, God!” Sherlock panted, tossing his head back. It cracked smartly against the door. “Ow!”

John chuckled. He ran his fingers over Sherlock’s cock, marveling at its smooth paleness, nestled against silky black pubes. His prick was longer than John’s own, he could tell, but - not that he was competitive or anything - John’s was thicker. This was going to be fun. He flicked his tongue over the tip, then circled, working his way up and down the shaft. Sherlock was muttering a nonsensical string of oaths and prayers. His sounding incoherent, undone, was unbelievably sexy. Taking a deep breath, John opened wide and slid his mouth down the length of Sherlock’s cock. He couldn’t take it all, but he was close. He grabbed the base with his hand and started to pump with his mouth. It had been a long time. 

Sherlock whimpered, his hands ghosting over John’s head. Then: “John, wait, wait,” Sherlock was pushing him off, pulling him back to his feet. His eyes were more like blue flames than like their usual ice. “Bed.”

John inhaled sharply. “Yes,” he said, kissing Sherlock again as they stumbled towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “Have you…have you ever…?” He didn’t quite know how to frame the question.

Kicking the door shut, Sherlock was pulling off his trousers, unbuttoning his shirt. John shucked his jumper, then seemed to get stuck: his hands forgot how to move, and his mouth went completely dry at the sight of Sherlock, naked and erect. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Sherlock smiled at the look in John’s eyes and began to make quick work of John’s shirt.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “With a woman, once. At uni. It was not good. With men…boys, really, I should say…some fumblings at school…mutual masturbation, some attempts at oral sex. Nothing serious. It all seemed messy, superfluous. And not worth the effort of the emotional connection most of them expected…”

At this point he had John’s shirt off and was stroking his nipples. He bent his head to lick one and John made a noise like a whimper. Sherlock smiled again and kneeled to remove John’s trousers, stopping to admire the view. What a delicious sight.

“How about you?” Sherlock asked. “With men, I mean. You said you hadn’t, before…but that didn’t seem like you were a stranger to having a cock in your mouth…”

It took John a moment to remember how to speak, distracted as he was by the vision of Sherlock kneeling before him, that head of black curls, that mouth. It was difficult to believe this was real. “Um,” he said, waiting for the words to come back to him. “Um, not since my Army days. And never sober. Just mates helping each other out.” He stepped out of his trousers and watched as Sherlock rose again from the floor, so gorgeous, so graceful. John caught his breath. “But never,” John whispered, “Never with anyone I cared about like I care for you…”

They stumbled together to the bed, all lips and arms and legs, tumbling over together, rubbing against each other, touching and tasting. John felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. Sherlock felt his senses sharpen, his mind cataloguing the sensations: the stubble on John’s face rubbing his own cheek, the warmth and hardness of John’s cock against his stomach, the amazing, erotic noises John made as Sherlock stroked him up and down.

But John wasn’t ready to come like that. He rolled and pinned Sherlock down on the bed, sliding his knee between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock gasped, trying to catch his breath, and John kissed his neck again, his ears, his lips, his eyelids.

“I want you,” he breathed into Sherlock’s ear. “I want…”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. “I want you inside me. Make me yours…yes, yes, yes…”

The words seemed to implode in John’s head. Though he was a relative stranger to this kind of sex, still he knew they needed a little help in the lubrication department. “Do you have anything we can use? We need some slick. And a condom…”

Sherlock shook his head: No. Looking almost embarrassed, he said, “Just transport, remember?”

“Oi, I’d think even the transport could use a little attention now and then. I'll get some from upstairs,” John said, rolling off and heading back to the door. Sherlock made a sad, disgruntled sound at John’s sudden absence. “I’ll be right back,” John reassured him. “And anyway, delayed gratification can be such a good thing.”


	3. Miraculous

Sherlock, his head propped on his hand, was scowling when John returned to the bedroom. “Delayed gratification, indeed,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been waiting since the day I met you.”

John placed the bottle of lube and a box of condoms on the bedside table and slid back under the covers. Kissing Sherlock again, John raked his fingers through that luscious mop of hair. “Sorry it took me a little longer,” he admitted. “But I got there, just the same. Got here,” he corrected, slipping his hand down again, over the muscled planes of Sherlock’s chest and stomach, to the velvet heat of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock dropped his head back onto the pillows and sighed, a short, gasping puff of breath. “John. It’s difficult to believe,” he started, watching the proceedings with half-hooded eyes. “John…”

“Yes, love?” The endearment just slipped out. Both men’s eyes widened. John swallowed. “I do, you know,” John said, suddenly removing his hand. This didn’t seem like a conversation to have with one’s fingers wrapped around a lover’s prick. “I’ve always known I loved you…I thought it was just as a friend – my closest friend, you know? But now I see…this is something much more…”

Slowly Sherlock sat up again. Brushing his lips across John’s, he murmured, “I love you, too. And I don’t say that lightly, John; I haven’t said those words to anyone, ever, in my adult life. Only you. You know that, yes?”

“Yes,” John said, marveling at the turn of event these past few hours. Where was his heterosexual crisis? His panic at finding himself in bed with his insane flatmate? Nowhere, clearly. Instead all John felt was wonder and awe. Gratitude. Desire. A frisson of alarm when Sherlock pushed him down on the bed and covered John with his whole body, kissing John passionately, all hot wet tongue and hungry mouth. It was a new experience for John, being pressed into the bed by someone so much bigger than he. But before he could analyze the feeling any further Sherlock slid down his body, kissing, nipping, licking: John’s neck, shoulders, his scar; nipples and sternum; navel and hip, the crease separating thigh and groin. It was too exquisite not to give himself up to the sensations.

And when Sherlock licked across the head of John’s cock and slid his hot, wet mouth down the length, any reservations John might have had flew right out the window and down Baker Street, across London, and exited the country entirely. Sherlock’s gray-green eyes tipped up to meet John’s own; the heart-shape of his mouth, stretched over John’s achingly-hard cock, had John’s hands scrabbling in the sheets. “Sherlock, oh God,” John gasped. “You don’t have to…”

His mouth otherwise occupied, Sherlock’s reply was to grab one of John’s hands and place it on his bobbing head. John ran his fingers through those soft curls. God, Sherlock’s mouth! He must be deducing what John liked as he sucked and teased and ran his tongue in all the places that drove John right around the bend. “Christ, Sherlock, I don’t want this to be over too soon,” he panted.

Sherlock pulled off with a filthy-sounding slurp and a mischievous grin. “Nor I,” he said, handing John the bottle of lubricant and settling back down on the bed. “Will you do the honors? Or shall I prepare myself?”

What a sight, like a male version of a Botticelli Venus, like a marble statue of Adonis: Sherlock spread out on the bed, sultry and wanting but – there, his eyes – betraying the tiniest bit of shyness. Fear.

Well, if there’s anything John knew about it was taking care of people. Hell, he’d been taking care of Sherlock since the day they met. This was just one more crazy step into the abyss. He swiped the lube from Sherlock’s hand and said, “Please. Allow me.”

This was not something John had done often, and never before with a man. But he took his time opening Sherlock, one finger slowly teasing and breeching, then two. Sherlock responded beautifully, spreading his legs further and finally lifting them to allow John better access. He tossed his head on the pillow when John added the third, his voice so low it rumbled in John’s ears: “Enough; I’m ready. No more of this horrid delay of gratification.”

John, ready and panting, poised between Sherlock’s legs, shook his head. “So impatient.” Gently he pulled his lubed fingers from Sherlock’s arse and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Oh, god, just fuck me already,” Sherlock hissed, stuffing one of the extra pillows under his hips and grabbing John to guide his cock inside.

John was careful - oh, so careful - as he pushed into Sherlock’s arse, millimeter by millimeter. Sherlock squirmed under him, gasping “Oh, yes, oh, John, oh, God!” Finally, John was balls-deep inside and he paused, catching his breath, waiting for Sherlock to get used to the sensation. Sherlock shut his eyes and saw the pictures in his brain flash by: the first time he ever saw John, at Bart’s; their first chase together, racing through the streets of London after that cab; John’s shooting the serial-killer, saving Sherlock’s life; the incident at the pool, when he thought he was going to lose John; and John and John and John…

Suddenly, achingly slowly, John started to move inside him, and the images in Sherlock’s mind emptied like water rushing down a drain. His eyes snapped open. In them, John saw…amazement. Abandon. Surrender.

John had to stop moving abruptly so he didn’t climax just from that look. Sherlock wrapped his long legs more tightly around John. “Don’t stop! I need you…I need you. Move! Now!”

That made John throw his head back and laugh out loud. “Greedy bastard,” he said, starting a shallow thrusting again. “D’you like that? D’you like my cock sliding inside you? You’re so tight, Sherlock, so hot, so perfect…”

And he did look perfect, writhing under John, his own cock pressed between them, his hair a mess of curls and his full mouth opened but beyond speech. John pushed Sherlock’s hips up and angled himself down to thrust deeper. He could tell when he hit the right spot: Sherlock was making a noise now like a keening, or a howl, crying out in between, “Oh God, John, oh fuck, oh God, I’m…I’m…”

John grabbed Sherlock’s cock and with a few sharp pumps Sherlock came, spurting on their chests, Sherlock’s body flailing first up to John and then down to the bed. Sherlock lay shuddering through the aftershocks, then his hands flew up to grip John’s shoulders, pulling John in even deeper with the backs of his legs up around John’s hips. “John, John, oh fuck,” Sherlock breathed, “Come for me now. Come in me.”

So finally John let himself go, thrusting into Sherlock with a punishing rhythm: grinding, pumping, driving himself until he felt his scrotum tightening and the heat gathering and all the blood rushing from his head…and he gripped Sherlock’s hips tighter as he came and came and cried out…

Finally finished pumping, finally spent, and his breathing ragged, John collapsed on Sherlock in a tangle of semen and sweat, kissing him, desperately kissing the man who had been his flatmate and his savior and was now his lover.

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” John said ruefully. He pulled out with care, but still Sherlock whimpered slightly at the loss. “Sorry. I guess I lost my head.” He mopped them up as best as he could with his discarded vest, tossing it onto the floor and binning the used condom.

“John. Don’t you dare apologize.” Sherlock lay them both back and nestled his head onto John’s chest, ruffling the golden hair between his nipples. “That was…perfect. Miraculous.”

“Miraculous?” John grinned.

“Yes. Phenomenal. Extraordinary. Absolutely fucking mind-blowing.”

“I’m glad,” he said, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head, kissing those crazy black curls. He loved hearing Sherlock curse. He loved lying, sated, in Sherlock’s bed; he’d loved every last minute of their…their _lovemaking_. John smiled, almost giddy with everything he was feeling. How could he have waited so long? “It was fucking mind-blowing for me, too.”

They lay together, sticky, happy, holding each other. Each lost in his own thoughts.

Sherlock broke the silence first. “So…your Army days?”

“Yeah. I guess, just like atheists, there aren’t many heterosexuals in foxholes, either.”

A laugh rumbled in Sherlock’s chest. “Interesting.”

“Not nearly as interesting as you,” John said, running his fingers down Sherlock’s back to give his arse a squeeze. “So, a woman? When you were at uni?”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Never again. Really not my area. I don’t know how you can do it.”

“Don’t think that I will be, from now on,” John said slowly. “Not after this… miraculous…whatever it is we have…”

“Good,” Sherlock said. “That’s…very good. John?”

“Yes?”

“How soon before we can do it again?”

       ~fin~

 

Thanks for reading! (Warning - shameless self-promotion ahead!) If you liked this, please check out two of my original works on Amazon! One is satirical, the other porny:

<https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07CKX85C3>

Big hugs and Johnlock kisses!


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